Her thoughts kept flipping back to the Seller85 emails. Three from the same sender was downright creepy. On impulse, she dialed Gabe’s direct number at the Messenger.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all week,” Gabe’s warm voice came across the line. “You’d think you were some very busy, important, syndicated advice columnist or something.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s been crazy.”
“Yeah, you use me for my editing skills and then discard me like yesterday’s newspaper,” Gabe deadpanned.
Sarah didn’t know where to start, but decided to give him the basics: she was in Penny Gate, Aunt Julia’s death, the suspicion surrounding her death, the weird emails. She recounted each to him one by one.
“They are odd,” Gabe admitted. “But you’ve gotten strange emails before,” he reminded her. “What’s different about these?”
“I’m not sure. Just a feeling, I guess,” Sarah admitted. “Journalistic instinct, maybe.”
“Why don’t you send them to me. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said. “I’m sure it will turn out to be nothing,” she added.
“No problem. You’re fired, though. I hired a new guy. I hear he returns phone calls.”
“You did not,” Sarah scoffed.
“Well, I’m thinking about it. I have the memo already written. Seriously, though, I’m so sorry about Jack’s aunt. How’s he doing?” Gabe asked.
“He’s sad. Confused. He’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that Amy is being questioned in her death.” Sarah hesitated before asking Gabe her next question, but they’d known each other for years. “Gabe, if I tell you something, can you respond to me as a reporter, not as my friend?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“I just found out that Jack’s mom and dad didn’t die in a car accident like he told me.” Sarah went on to explain all that she had learned since she arrived in Penny Gate. When she was finished she was met by a long silence.
Finally he spoke. “As a reporter, I’m intrigued. First, you’ve got this great guy, Jack, a family man, married for twenty years, who has maintained that his parents died in a car accident. Now you find out that’s all been a lie. I’d want to find out what really happened and I wouldn’t go to my original source for the answers. He hasn’t been reliable. I’d dig deeper.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “That’s what I think, too.”
Gabe’s voice took on a softer tone. “But as your friend, I’d say, take care of yourself, Sarah. Watch yourself. And let me know if you get any more emails. If you’re spooked, then I am. Be careful.”
Sarah thanked him and said goodbye, staring out across the flat landscape. So different than the mountains and valleys of Montana. How she missed Larkspur. As soon as the funeral was over she was going to leave Penny Gate whether Jack was coming with her or not. She should never have come here. It was poisonous.
Her telephone screen lit up with a text from Margaret. Can you meet me at five o’clock at Delia’s on Main Street?
She checked the clock on the dashboard. Two fifteen. Where had the day gone? She hadn’t eaten anything since the night before and she felt shaky and sick to her stomach. She sent a message back to Margaret letting her know that she would meet her at five.
She reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the headphones again. She was ready to listen to the second audiotape.
Sarah slid the earphones over her head and pushed Play. She listened in rapt attention to all the interviews that Sheriff Gilmore, then a deputy, had conducted during Lydia’s murder investigation.
First she listened to Gilmore interview a woman by the name of Victoria Dupree, who identified herself as one of Jack’s teachers at the high school. No, Jack wasn’t at school the afternoon his mother died. Yes, he did seem to have a bit of a temper, was sullen. She had seen Jack arguing with his mother after parent-teacher conferences. He had knocked the car keys out of his mother’s hand and stomped away. No, she didn’t know what the argument was about, but probably about Jack’s grades. He wasn’t doing well in school as of late.
The next interviewee was a farmhand named Randy Loring, who worked for the Tierney family on and off. The first thing he did was establish that he had an ironclad alibi—he was at the hospital with his girlfriend, who was having a baby. He then went on to say that no, he had never seen John and Lydia Tierney argue, nothing more than a few sharp words, anyway. He did, however, see Jack argue with his parents on more than one occasion. Once even violently. Randy described one morning when he drove up to the Tierney farm and found Jack and his father shouting at each other. About what, Randy couldn’t say, but Jack had a shovel in his hand, and for a minute there, Randy was sure that Jack was going to hit his father with it. Once Jack saw Randy’s truck, he threw the shovel to the ground and stomped away. John Tierney had brushed off the incident, said that Jack was just a restless teenager who resented having to spend all his free time working on the farm when he could be out with that pretty girlfriend of his.
Sarah’s stomach dropped. Celia again. She couldn’t believe she was hearing her husband described in this way: short-tempered, violent, sullen. Yes, Jack could be withdrawn; she and the girls even would tease him about it. Dad’s going off into his own little world now, so if you need to ask him anything, better do it quick.
One thing was clear: no one, not one person that was interviewed who knew Lydia and John Tierney, could ever recall a fight, a disagreement or harsh words between them. But apparently one morning John beat Lydia to death and then disappeared.
Gilmore asked each and every person that he interviewed whether or not they thought John Tierney could have murdered his wife. They all said no except for one person. Dean Quinlan. Dean reported to Gilmore that yes, while Jack and his father argued, it was John who had the nasty temper, was the one who was hard on Jack, the one who got physical. If anyone killed my aunt Lydia, Dean said, it would have been my uncle John. I hate to say it, but unless it was a robber or something, he’s the one who did it.
Why would Dean, Jack’s cousin and best friend, be the only one able to envision John as the killer? Did Jack confide in his cousin, telling him about the terrible fights that he had with his father? Had Dean been a witness to the arguments? Or was Dean protecting his best friend by portraying John as overbearing and violent?
Even an eleven-year-old Amy told Gilmore that Jack and their parents fought over stuff. When pressed as to what was the stuff they argued over, Amy’s answers were short and hesitant. “School. Jack got off the bus but wouldn’t always go into school,” she said shyly. “Mom would get mad and Jack would yell.” Her voice was barely audible. At eleven, there was no sign of Amy’s tough facade or cutting remarks. Only one thing in Amy’s voice sounded familiar—the bone-aching sadness. Sarah wondered if the loneliness was there before the death of her mother and disappearance of her father or if it was always there, in the fabric of her bones and sinew.
Several of those interviewed, people with names that Sarah didn’t recognize, reported that Lydia and Jack fought over Jack’s many teenage shenanigans. How he skipped school, how he was drinking and smoking with older kids like his cousin, Dean, the public arguments with his mother and father. The numerous occasions he had run away from home for days at a time. Still, none of this spelled out murderer.
The Jack described in the tapes was so different than the one she knew. While Jack retreated into himself now and again, he never ran away like he did when he was a teen and like his father ultimately did. He wasn’t a big drinker and certainly didn’t smoke. She had difficulty reconciling that they could be the same person, but there it was, right in the tapes. It was clear from Gilmore’s questions that Jack was the main suspect, at least initially.
It wasn’t until the later interviews dated a few days after the murder that i
t was clear that John Tierney was missing.
No one interviewed could imagine to where John Tierney would have run away to. His whole universe was Penny Gate. His grandparents were born here, his father was born here, he was born here, his children were born here. There was nowhere and nothing else that he could possibly have run to.
After the final interview, Sarah hit the stop button and slowly pulled off the headphones and laid her forehead against the steering wheel.
A persistent little thought tried to wheedle its way into her brain. What if he did it? the voice asked. What if Jack killed his mother? Then what happened to his father? Sarah countered. Could she really have misjudged Jack for so long? Had she been fooled by his quiet reserve, mistaking it for shyness and sensitivity while really it was cold-blooded indifference? Had she all along been married to a monster?
12
SARAH ARRIVED AT DELIA’S, just two doors down from the Penny Café, twenty minutes before Margaret was due to arrive. It was a typical small-town bar. Dim and dated with walls filled with pictures of locals posing with a dark-haired woman whom Sarah assumed was Delia.
Five men and a woman lined the bar, deep in debate over the baseball game that was on the TV above the bar. As she passed by the crowd, the hum of chatter quieted. Three old men, dressed in coveralls and seed hats, hunched over their plates, watched her covertly out of the corners of their eyes as they chewed. She wondered if they knew who she was, and if they had heard about what happened to Julia.
The woman behind the bar had hair dyed an unnatural black with a purple sheen and large brown doe eyes. She looked eerily similar to the woman in the photos and Sarah wondered if she could be Delia’s daughter. “Dinner?” she asked, and Sarah nodded.
“There will be two of us,” Sarah said as the waitress led her to the dining room. “Could we have a corner booth?”
“Of course. Are you new to the area?” the waitress asked. “You don’t look familiar to me.”
“No, I’m visiting family.”
“Who’s that?” the waitress asked.
“The Quinlans. I’m married to Jack.”
“Oh, I remember Jack. I’m Clarice Jantzen,” the woman said with a kind smile. “Sheriff Gilmore is my dad. I heard about Julia. I’m so sorry. She was the sweetest lady.”
“Thank you,” Sarah murmured as she sat, accepting the menu that Clarice offered.
“How’s the family doing?” Clarice asked. “I bet Amy’s just devastated.” Sarah couldn’t tell if the woman was prying for gossip or simply making conversation. Sarah nodded tentatively, not comfortable sharing information with this stranger. “What can I bring you to drink?” she asked, taking the hint.
“An iced tea, please,” Sarah said as her cell phone vibrated, displaying a number she wasn’t familiar with. “Excuse me,” she said to Clarice. “But I need to take this.” Once Clarice moved out of earshot Sarah answered.
“Mrs. Quinlan?” a young male voice asked.
“Yes?” Sarah responded.
“This is Arthur Newberry. You left me a message regarding representation of your sister-in-law?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, taken off guard. The voice on the other end of the line sounded much too young for someone who had attended law school. “Do you think you would be able to help?”
“Yes, of course. I can start right away,” he said, barely able to contain his excitement. Sarah wanted to ask him how old he was, but figured that she was fortunate that he had called her back.
Arthur said he would head right over to the sheriff’s department. “I’ll call you after I talk with Amy. You and I can meet to discuss her case.”
From across the room Sarah caught sight of Margaret entering the pub. She thanked Arthur and disconnected.
Sarah stood when Margaret arrived at the table and Clarice approached, her forehead furrowing in confusion. “Hi, Clarice,” Margaret said. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Clarice. I’m not working tonight.”
Once Clarice was out of earshot, Sarah leaned forward and whispered, “Did you know that’s Gilmore’s daughter? Do you really think it’s a good idea to be meeting here?”
Margaret waved her red-tipped fingers dismissively. “Of course I know that. I went to high school with Clarice’s older sister. I work with her father. We’re fine.” She picked up her menu.
Sarah opened her own menu. “Do you know if the sheriff arrested Amy?”
Margaret nodded, pursing her lips together tightly. “I don’t know many details but I do know he read Amy her rights.”
“I figured as much.” Sarah dropped her menu to the table. “I got her a lawyer. His name is Arthur Newberry.”
“Nice boy,” Margaret commented. “Took over his grandfather’s practice about a year ago. He’ll work hard for Amy.”
“Do you think Amy really could have done it?” Sarah asked, unwrapping her silverware from the napkin. “I don’t know her well, but I just can’t understand it all.”
“It’s hard for me to believe, too,” Margaret agreed. “Amy has always been a lost soul, but a killer?” Margaret shook her head. “I don’t see her knocking Julia in the head, making her fall down the stairs. It’s probably all a big mistake. The sheriff will figure it out.”
“So that’s what the cause of death was? A blow to the head?” Sarah asked, hoping Margaret might offer some information about the possible use of poison.
“As far as I know,” Margaret answered. “Why? Have you heard something else?” Margaret looked at her curiously.
“No, I was just wondering. It’s all so crazy. I just am having trouble wrapping my head around everything.”
Margaret didn’t seem to have knowledge of the toxicology report linking the poison to Amy’s home or at least she wasn’t letting on that she knew anything.
Clarice set their drinks down in front of them. “So how do you two know each other?” she asked after jotting down their dinner orders.
Sarah froze, not expecting this question from their waitress let alone the sheriff’s daughter. What possible reason would two virtual strangers have to meet for dinner? Margaret plucked the celery from her Bloody Mary. They couldn’t very well tell her that they were colluding to access case files that they had no permission to view.
“Julia Quinlan’s funeral dinner. I’m in charge of organizing the desserts.” She crunched into the stalk. “I’m making my lemon squares. Do you think you could bring one of your strawberry-rhubarb pies?”
Clarice narrowed her eyes with suspicion, but didn’t press further. “Sure, I’ll make two,” she said as she walked away.
“I listened to the audiotapes. They were...” Sarah searched for the right words. “Hard to listen to,” she finished. “Thank you for getting them for me.”
Margaret patted Sarah’s hand. “I know Jack, I know Amy. I knew Lydia and John Tierney. I want to help.”
Sarah squeezed her lemon wedge into her iced tea. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I have to rely on someone I barely even know to fill me in on the details of my husband’s life.” She shook her head ruefully. “I just can’t get Jack to talk about it and I don’t know why.”
Margaret looked at her with sympathy. “You didn’t know about any of it? How Lydia died?”
“No.” Sarah blinked back sudden tears. It was difficult to admit that her husband couldn’t trust her with this information, that he never had.
“It’s understandable, I guess.” Margaret took a sip of her drink. “Think about it. His mother was beaten to death in the cellar of their home and he discovered her body. I heard that one of the young deputies who responded to the call went inside the house, took one look at Lydia, ran up the stairs and outside and quit. Turned in his badge and gun right on the spot. This horrible thing happened to Jack’s family, and whe
n he was finally able to leave Penny Gate, he could put it all behind him. He went off to college, moved to another state, started a new life where no one needed to know what happened in the past.”
“I don’t know...”
“Then—” Margaret held up one finger to show that she wasn’t finished “—he met you and he was faced with the choice of telling you about how his father murdered his mother and then disappeared or taking the hard way out.”
Sarah gave a short laugh. “The hard way out? How do you figure?”
“Listen, honey,” Margaret said kindly. “I know I’m not that much older than you, but I’ve been married twice. My first husband I divorced because I caught him cheating on me. My second husband died of prostate cancer.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I’m still not quite following you,” Sarah admitted, wishing that she had ordered something stronger than iced tea. “How is not telling me the hard way out?”
“Now bear with me. My second husband had cancer for six months before he told me. Later he told me that he wanted to try the active surveillance—” she lifted her fingers to create air quotes “—treatment option first and didn’t want to worry me.
“What I’m saying is, my first husband lied to me because he was a shit. My second husband lied to me because he wanted to protect me and I loved him for it. Now, I’m not saying I wasn’t pissed off. I was, believe you me. But after I got over being mad I realized he was just trying to spare me from any pain for as long as possible. Understand?”